Closure
by Zylstra
Summary: Cas has learned many things in his time on Earth - the value of closure among them. Cas centric, very mild Destiel if you squint.


Okay! Hi, guys, hope you're doing okay~ I usually don't like doing these author's notes before a fic - a piece of writing should stand alone, blah, blah, blah - but this one's my exception. With tv series, I have this funny little idea that at the end, everything goes back to the way it was in the beginning, but not quite. Like Stargate SG1, which I watched since I was about eight years old, finished with the gang continuing to explore the galaxy like they had for the past ten seasons, and that's the way I imagined Supernatural - that the last time we see Sam, Dean, Bobby and Cas, they'll be heading off to hunt some monsters, save some lives.

Then seasons six and seven happened, and completely shot down my little head canon. Pun intended.

I always found Cas to be a really interesting character, and I love the subtle changes that occur to his character through seasons four, five and, to some extent, six. So this fic is kind-of-a-little-but-not-really an extension of how that could have played out. ^^

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Closure

You appear, but no one notices. The corridor is busy, shoes squeaking on the disinfected floor as they navigate the bustle of people, each focused on their tasks of unfathomable urgency. There's a constant rustle of forms as they're sifted through and exchanged between hands, concise orders conveyed in voices accentuated with notes of weariness and the lively chirp of pagers mocking the bad news they deliver. You arrived in complete silence, positioning yourself in an unobtrusive corner where you could search for the object of your mission discreetly: your quiet presence is hardly worthy of the notice of these people at the moment. Besides, you're not the only stubble-faced, sunken-eyed man waiting idly in this place. You are almost invisible. Almost.

"Excuse me?" There's a tug on your trench coat, light but insistent. "Excuse me, please?"

Almost cautiously, you look down. A man sits in a nearby chair, a little girl no more than two cradled his arms. She wails in between the coughs that echo like falling boulders in her throat and clutches the man's shirt in tiny fingers, desperately tired and uncomfortable. The man looks at you with red, swollen eyes, a similar exhaustion apparent in his disheveled appearance. As he swallows stiffly, you notice something else: unadulterated panic.

"Are you a doctor?" the man asks in an undertone. He glances toward the fidgeting bundle in his arms then to the rest of the filled hospital waiting room.

There was a time where you would have replied with a straight and simple, "no" and walked away – after all, you are not a doctor and this was not your mission. But over the years, you've changed; the people you've met on Earth have changed you. It's harder to disregard these human requests, harder to remain distant and callous, especially when their last hopes are draining in front of you.

You lower yourself to one knee and meet the man's eyes carefully. "I'm not, I'm sorry," you tell him.

The man nods shakily, looking away. "Sorry to bother you," he says.

"May the peace of the Lord be with you both," you say, standing. You reach out and press two fingers to the little girl's temple; immediately, her breathing begins to even out and her crying simmers to a quiet murmur. She's soon snoring quietly against her father's chest, restlessness soothed. The man's features relax and he turns to you with gratitude on his lips, so you hurry away. Gratitude still makes you feel awkward and generally you try and avoid it. The mission at hand is a good excuse for that, at least.

You're here to answer a prayer. Not that man's – he'd never seen you before, much less knew your name – but you're not entirely sure whose. These days, your 'zapping' skills are a little less than accurate: with places such as hospitals, and there are so many people praying for help from_ anyone,_ sometimes the wires become jumbled and you end up off course. You suppose this is the mild toll the passage time is taking on you.

But someone called for you – you specifically. That doesn't happen so often anymore. You're not in such high demand (or as high on heaven's wanted lists) since threats of various endings of the world thinned with the Winchesters' hair. You and Heaven have reached a kind of truce: you will pull your weight doing acts of goodwill towards men and they will keep their politics _civil_ and to themselves. You will occasionally take care of a demon or rogue angel trying to make a fuss at their request, like in the old days, and sometimes a hunter will stumble across your name in history or lore and summon you for a hand. But mostly you find your own work to do. You don't mind that so much, usually. It certainly beats committing war crimes under the justification of 'following orders'; it beats being smited for refusing to carry them out.

Sam, and Dean, and Bobby, they taught you that: that sometimes you have to stand up for what's right, even when it means getting hurt. You think Bobby's exact words may have been, "even if it comes back to kick you in the balls." You miss that kind of eloquent wisdom they'd give you, even if it wasn't warranted. You miss all of them.

Bobby had been the first to go. It hadn't quite been old age, although the bald patch had certainly crept across his head like contagion, not to mention the joint pain on cold mornings and liver problems. In the end, it was one lucky ghoul who'd got through their defenses on a nest raid. Sam and Dean had felt responsible in a million different ways of complete irrelevance; they practically begged you to bring him back. You told them that your powers were drained and trying to bring him back would do more harm than good, and, reluctantly, they had bought it. You were there as they salted and burned the body. Of course, your ability to heal was in no way impaired, and your "drained mojo" story was all nonsense. But after all those years, you were going to follow one order that was not your own, the one Bobby Singer had given you in no uncertain terms.

"I'm old; if anything happens to me from now on, don't to bring me back."

It was an order you'd heard passed around these people who'd become your family before, one that had been blatantly disregarded over and over – and Bobby knew it.

"Or I swear," he had added quickly, "I'll kick your ass so hard you're gonna need a spatula to get out of your pants."

At first, you were lined up to ignore him outright despite his customary threats – the Winchesters would be heartbroken. That wavered after you saw the draw full of pills, faltered after you saw the wheelchair Bobby would use on bad days (when the boys weren't around) and collapsed entirely when he spent his last thirty seconds giving everything he owned to Sam and Dean in the calmest voice you'd ever heard him use.

"Remind Cas about the spatula," he'd said finally, and he was gone.

Sam and Dean hadn't known what it meant, and you didn't explain it to them. Sam might have understood Bobby's reasons, but Dean you weren't so sure about - you knew the speech you'd be given, the one about how family didn't let each other die simply cause they asked, not when there was another option. And if Dean had asked you to bring Bobby back, you might not have been able to resist. He had that effect on you. It had been hard enough for you maintaining the mojo story. You'd wondered whether or not you'd done the right thing. There'd be seconds that you'd convince yourself that you had, and then moments after that you'd decide that you were making the biggest mistake. When it came to your family, was this the one order you made sure you followed, or the one that you absolutely didn't? You simply didn't know. You'd never cared as much about any of your family in Heaven as you did about Bobby and the Winchesters.

The stinging in your eyes at that cremation had been too strong to blame on merely smoke and airborne dust.

Nineteen years after that, Sam was next. Cancer. You visited him in the hospital and offered your healing services, but he refused them. You had looked to Dean for some sort of rebuttal, some sort of protest, but he had remained oddly quiet throughout the entire encounter. Sam had given you a knowing glance and a nod – he'd long since guessed what had happened with Bobby, no doubt, and so when Dean was well out of earshot, he asked for only one thing: sleep. You had agreed, but unexpectedly, you were relieved. Somehow, knowing that Sam knew what you'd let Bobby do gave you peace. Sam was asking the same thing as Bobby, and that made it sit better on your conscience.

Dean was less than agreeable about the whole thing, even without knowing Sam's final request, but ultimately didn't put up a fight. Dean had told you later that it was because he was kind of relieved that his baby brother had lived long enough to die of natural causes. You suspected that was only partly the reason.

A microscopic part. Subsequent to Sam's cremation, you'd escorted Dean home in a variety of drunken states, although statistically unconsciousness was the most common. On the nights that he made it home awake (if you could call it that), he'd tell you how he just didn't "get it", he just didn't "get" how he could have let Sam turn on himself like that, again. He'd blame himself, say that it was his fault, all his fault - he couldn't explain why, it just was; he'd blame you for letting him let Sam give up; he'd feel guilty that he was shirking his responsibility for Sam's death onto you when it was all _his_ fault. Then he'd pat you on the shoulder and apologise and pass out. It wasn't long before you couldn't stand it any more.

And so, you'd taken Sam "Heaven hopping" so he could find Jess, and you'd brought Dean in his dreams to see them once. It'd been a long time since you'd seen Dean that at peace: it was as though when he closed his eyes, the lights finally turned themselves out. He'd found his closure. Incidences of Dean's alcohol-induced sedation dropped after that.

Dean still wasn't quite the same after Sam died; you hardly expected him to be. You found yourself hanging around slightly longer than necessary after a case and appearing at intervals under the pretense of wanting a burger or two, just to check on him. You're not sure whether Dean simply never noticed, or he noticed and just didn't mind. You felt moderately certain that Dean would have said something if he'd noticed, so maybe this one had escaped him. However, if he didn't hunt with you, he hunted alone. Maybe that meant something. You'd decided just to leave things the way they were, one way or the other.

Dean, almost grudgingly, made it to age seventy-four. Just three days before his heart failed in his sleep, he had been hunting a shifter. He'd nearly caught it too when his reconstructed knee decided to give way – and with it giving lease to a sequence of gruff curses that were exceptionally creative, even for the white-haired, arthritic and slightly senile Dean Winchester. The fight culminated in an impressive display of improvisation using a mechanic's roller board and several silver-tipped darts. You're sure the image of Dean hobbling towards a monster waving an empty shotgun and a fistful of darts will stay with you a while; despite his grumbles about old age, and the blunt irritation directed at you and your ageless appearance, you couldn't help but smile.

"Perhaps you could become a vessel for an angel, so that you too will never age," you had said as you'd mended the knee, taking yet another stab at that 'sarcasm' thing that you'd been working on for years.

"There's no way I want one of those dicks in me," Dean had retorted without missing a beat. You quirked your head; you_ still_ needed to work on your delivery, it seemed. The moment silence that followed seemed to clear up the confusion. "Sarcasm, right. Good work, Cas." Your sarcasm answered with sarcasm; at least you could recognise it now. Nevertheless, Dean had chuckled and shaken his head. You didn't quite understand why, but that hadn't mattered so much.

You still visit Dean in Heaven, from time to time, and you drink a liquor store together. Every time, Dean happily slurs about having the best of being drunk without the hangovers, and the best bacon cheeseburgers he's ever had. You'll generally agree through your mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, or alternatively throw another cheeseburger at his face. He gives a dopey laugh when you do that and promptly returns the favour.

Your thoughts have gone off on a tangent. You _were_ here to answer this prayer - you should get to it. You scour floor after floor; this used to be so much easier! You soon begin to wonder if you've missed something. That_ is_ a possibility, after all.

"Castiel?" The voice behind you is hesitant. A young nurse hugs a clipboard to her chest, unsure of whether she should express the weight on her mind.

"You summoned me?" you ask bluntly, confused.

The nurse breathes a sigh in disbelief. "You look exactly like she described you," she says. "Right down to the blue tie."

"Who described me?" you press.

"Mrs. Sargent," says the nurse. "I'll take you to her, if you like. I know she'd definitely like to see you. She's had a good couple of days, so there's a good chance she'll remember you." You nod slowly and follow her down the hall. "You know," the nurse continues, "none of us actually thought you were real. She kept talking about you like you were an angel." She laughs awkwardly. "You leave your wings at home today or something?"

You shake your head. "I generally do not show them in public," you reply.

The nurse laughs more openly this time. It seems your sarcastic delivery has definitely improved, even if you are being truthful. "I guess they would be a bit of a nuisance to wear around." You pick up on that sarcastic reply as well, you proudly note. The nurse's pager bloops at that moment; she attends to it immediately, steps slowing to a halt. "Oh, I have to go," she apologises briefly. "Mrs. Sargent's room is just down the end there. Just press the buzzer if you need anything!"

Your answer wastes no time. "Thank you."

You reach the end of the corridor, taking a moment to recognise the plaque that stands guard outside the room. It reads "Sargent, C." and someone has taken the liberty of adding heart-shaped stickers and smiley faces to it. As you enter the room, similar items seize your notice: a vase of brightly coloured flowers framed by cards that read 'Get Well Soon, Nanna', a helium balloon on a weighted string slowly losing its buoyancy and a number of crayon drawings strung up on the walls. You approach the still figure on the bed and watch them with narrowed eyes.

An elderly woman sleeps there. From a series of digital photographs displayed on the bedside table, you can gather that she was once vibrant and active and happy, but now has withered with the wrinkles that crinkle her skin and has bleached with the strands of white that have overtaken her once-golden hair. Now she simply looks tired.

You're not quite sure what to do. Ordinarily, you would clear your throat to make your presence known and ask outright but something stops you. You're missing something important – the sleeping woman is not a hunter seeking your advice, nor does she seem to be eager to exploit your abilities. Logically, you'd think that you'd been summoned to heal. You're in a hospital, after all. Of course, in cases such as this one, there's not a great deal you can offer apart from sleep. You can't reverse the toll age has already taken. Yet, something about that doesn't sit comfortably. Only the Winchesters have ever prayed to you specifically for healing; why would this Mrs. Sargent call you now?

As you watch, the old woman stirs. Instinctively, you shift your weight to take a step backwards, and to your unease you find you cannot move an inch. Her eyes open slowly, and she looks up at you. Hers, blue and bloodshot, meet and hold your own – but unlike yours, they quickly chew up their confusion. Your brow furrows deeper – you haven't seen what she has. Gnarled, thin fingers capture your hand, gripping as tightly as their shaking can allow.

"Daddy?"

You feel a strange tightening in your chest, but it's distant, as though it doesn't even belong to you. You mean to say something, you really do but as you go to, one final picture catches your attention. Not a digital one, paper. Now it's framed, but its torn and yellowed edges say it was carried around in pockets and handbags and wallets for quite some time.

And it's of you.

Or rather, it_ looks_ like you, but not quite. The man in the picture sits on a park bench wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans with sunglasses resting atop his head. He has an arm around a similarly dressed woman with long blonde hair, and a girl the spitting image of her sit between them both. You've certainly never worn anything so casual, or been half as relaxed as the man in the photo looks. He smiles widely, not just with his mouth but with his eyes. It's the same smile the woman and child are wearing.

Mrs. Sargent may have prayed for Castiel, but that's no longer who she sees.

You've been here before. Your first moment in this vessel, a voice had called to you from the porch. Then, it had been high-pitched and innocent – frightened; it was nothing like the weathered and tremulous one that called for you now. Yet it was still as small and uncertain as it had been that day. You remember it clearly.

"I am not your father," you had said, and left, leaving in your wake confusion and abandonment. Those were petty little things to you, not in any way relevant to the plan. But you've become more human than you ever thought; you almost have the capacity to imagine the pain you caused. It makes you shift in your skin. Before you took this vessel, they were a family. And then you came and broke it into pieces. These days, you know a precious little about families: you don't just leave your family broken if you have the slightest chance of mending it. Sam, Dean and Bobby tried to teach you that.

"Claire..." You squeeze her hand and force a smile, trying to wish away this lump in your throat. You try and match the childish voice to the woman life has cast into shadows, though its the most you can manage to hold her gaze. "I'm sorry I took so long."

She sniffs, failing to hold back the tears that well in her eyes. "I missed you, Daddy," she whispers.

"I know, I know," you console weakly. "I'm here now."

Claire sniffles again, trying to stem the tears that are quickly becoming uncontrollable. It's been an age since you took this vessel, years since Jimmy Novak had demanded you choose him over his daughter, but her pain is still timelessly fresh and clean-cut. Her waning memory sees to that mercilessly. "You never said goodbye," she chokes.

You're at a loss. Hesitantly, you reach out and brush the moisture from her cheeks. "I know," you tell her. "I should have." Claire nods and continues to watch you, unblinking in case she loses a single moment. Other things to say nudge at your lips – "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe", "I'm sorry I wasn't there" – but you don't say anything. They're the things Jimmy would say. But you're not Jimmy; you'd feel like a cheat, an imposter if they came from you.

And yet, you cannot stand by and do nothing, so, gently, you stroke her white hair. "Shh," you murmur. "It's okay. It's okay now. I'm sorry – for everything, I'm just..." You press two fingers to her temple, and her eyelids flutter closed and her tears slow. Her breaths return to being deep and even. "Sorry..."

You hover a moment before gently replacing Claire's hand on the bed. Regret pesters you - could you have done more? Perhaps you've helped a bit, perhaps you haven't, but at the very least you've brought Claire a little closure. And if you've learned anything from being human, it's that maybe sometimes that can be the most important thing of all.

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Thanks for reading!

Definitely new territory for me here, so feedback of any kind would be marvelous~


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